


The Abandoned Bike

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Depression, FIRST DAY OF SUMMER YO!!!! THIS MEANS MORE CONTENT, Foster kid Alexander Hamilton, Pining, Suicidal Tendencies, Thomas is a fucking drama queen, Thomas is a sneaky boi, past/mentioned abuse, there's so much tension lile bRUh, these two need to hook up already
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 17:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14878134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Alexander Hamilton always bikes to school, until fate pulls him and Jefferson together.The only telltale signs are records of worried phone calls and an abandoned bicycle.





	The Abandoned Bike

Most people have that one person who they trust no matter what, that individual they can always depend on.

Alexander learned at a young age that life and love and death were all volatile things though, and couldn't be trusted.

And since people were easily affected by these things, he didn't exactly trust people either.

He had been through eight foster homes in the last three months, because nobody wanted him. It was simple to him, really. He was a kid who had a weather unique, terrible upbringing ― his father was in solitary confinement, and his mother was in the ground. A couple of his foster families barely regarded him as human, and one of his foster parents in the last house he had been in was an alcoholic, who abused him.

Yeah, that wasn't Alexander's favorite.

And though he liked to believe otherwise, he let it get to him. So whenever a teacher or counselor or his social worker asked him where he saw himself in the future, he responded, “with my mother.”

This usually evoked some laughter, but the kids who knew about him were just concerned.

He resorted to cutting himself. Now, self-inflicted scars intermingled with hand-sized bruises on his arms.

Nobody knew for a while.

 

~~

 

“Ey! Hamilton!”

The voice was familiar, and Alexander hated that it was like oxygen to him ― a thing that both kept him from dying and was always near him.

“What, Jefferson?”

“Franklin's project? We're partners, remember?”

“I can do the work.”

“No, Alex, we should split it between us.”

“ _ Jefferson _ ,” Alexander spat, rudely reminding Thomas of the fact that they were  _ not _ on a first-name basis, “I'm really flattered. But I don't want your 'help’.”

“Alexander,” Thomas pleaded ― he was begging Alex's name? Why did this settle weird in the latter's stomach? ― “I want to work on this project. I like this subject and you know what, I  _ will _ work on this with you.”

“Fine. My house?”

“No. You're coming to my house,” Thomas insisted.

Alexander started walking in the other direction, and Thomas picked the smaller one up, slinging him over his shoulder. Alex squeaked in surprise. “Hey! Put me down!”

Instead of answering, Thomas walked outside and stopped by a black Prius. He then dropped Alex into the passenger seat, going around to get in the driver's seat. Alexander was trying to get out, but when Thomas rested a hand on the smaller man's leg, he sighed and buckled up.

“What about my bike?”

“It's fine, I'll drive you home and to school tomorrow.”

“Ew, no, I'm not staying with your any longer than I need to―”

“We're neighbors, Alexander.”

“It's not my actual home, it's just a foster home,” Alex grumbled. “I'll get kicked out soon enough.”

Thomas turned to Alexander incredulously. “You don't really think that, do you? The Washingtons love you!”

Alexander shrugged, resting his head on the window as he watched the world go by on the other side of the glass. The car was really just metal and working parts ― so it was volatile, tactile, just like everything else. What if they didn't make it home? What if he was stuck with Thomas, in a broken down car on the side of the road?!

“Alexander. You really think no one loves you?” Thomas had pulled over, with one hand on the wheel and his torso turned towards Alex.

“Just drive, Thomas,” he said, slightly regretting letting the taller man's first name slip out.

“Alex―”

“Look, I could care less about your sentimentalities at the moment, now will you shut up and drive so we actually get this freaking assignment done?”

Thomas whistled lowly, then hit the gas, swerving back onto the highway and barely missing a bright orange car.

The two were silent, shocked for a bit. Thomas drove a little bit slower, and with more caution, until Alex piped up.

“Who has a car like that?”

“Trump, maybe?” Thomas giggled, and Alexander grinned.

“To be honest, I'm surprised your car isn't neon magenta or something.”

“Aw, I'm not  _ that _ crazy now, am I?”

Alex pursed his lips. “You're wearing a hot pink sweatshirt. I wouldn't put it past you.”

“True,” Thomas laughed, and Alexander smirked. “We're almost there,” he added.

“Soo..Thomas. You said that someone loves me? Whomever is this mysterious individual?”

“Are you...flirting with me?”

“Not unless you're the individual.”

Thomas quieted, focusing his eyes on the road. Alexander swallowed over a inexplicable bump in his throat.

“Are...you the individual?”

Smiling wryly, Thomas muttered something Alex couldn't hear, causing the shorter party to replace his head on the window.

Then he spoke yet again.

“Thomas. It's a yes or no question.”

“And it's not a big deal,  _ Hamilton _ .”

“Fine.” Alexander crossed his arms, reminding Thomas strongly of an impudent child. “I just wanted to know.”

Thomas exhaled, exasperated, and then stopped the car in his driveway. The two sat in silence for a few minutes, until Alex started shuffling to get out.

“Alex?”

The shorter kid paused. “What?”

“You're not, like, suicidal, right?”

“Thomas, be real. Now let's go inside and get this project done.”

Hoping with his whole being that Alexander's response was secretly a definite no, he followed the foster kid out of his car.

“Hey, the door's locked.”

“Well, yeah, we don't want burglars.”

“Aren't Peter and Jane home?”

Thomas shrugged. “Not today. They usually work late.”

“Both of them?”

“Wow, Alex ― you ask a lot of questions for someone who won't answer any.”

“Fine. Open the door.”

Pulling out the key, Thomas hesitated, then rested his arm on the doorframe, leaning into it. “What is  _ wrong _ with you lately? Aren't you happy school's almost done?”

Alexander shrugged. “That means I'm with the Washingtons more, and once they get to know me? They'll hate me, disown me, and it'll be off to another foster home. It's normal, but now I'm going to miss people when I leave ― John, Herc, Gilbert, Aaron, the Schuyler sisters, Jemmy, maybe even you.”

“Why do you say 'when’, why not at least 'if’? Plus, at this point I don't even think it'll happen! Can't you think positive?”

“Thinking positive disappointed me,” Alex grumbled, and Thomas understood. Without further ado, he opened the door and ushered Alex inside.

“You want some coffee?” The taller of the two asked, dropping his bag at the door. Alexander shrugged.

“Alexander. Please talk.”

“Fine. Bam. I'm talking.”

“You agree reluctantly too much.”

He shrugged again. “I'm forced to do things I don't want to do too much.”

“Alexander―”

“Can't you just call me Alex just like every other normal person?!”

Thomas's shoulders slumped. He was on edge around Alexander, afraid of crossing the line but also afraid of falling into the abyss behind himself.

“Yes. I can. So, Alex―”

“Let's just get this stinkin’ project done. So what's our subject again?”

“One strong central government. We need to choose a stance―”

“Its great. Most beneficial to America.”

“― _ Together _ , Alexander.”

“Alex.”

“I'm sorry! It's fun to say your name, I like it I guess, I dunno!”

“That's really weird.”

“ _ You're _ really weird,” Thomas muttered. An elementary retort, sure, but still something.

“Whatever. So how are strong central governments  _ not _ a good thing?”

“It restricts the individuality of states and may force entire regions to do something different because it's what the majority wants. I.e, if all of California agreed on a law, but some smaller states didn't, it's a collective thing so California’s majority would win just because they have a larger population. Does that make sense? Like―”

“True, but what many propose is each state individually voting, and the majority of the state contributing to the vote. And a strong central government doesn't mean the whole country voted on every thing. Say there was an issue in, like, Philadelphia. People up in Wisconsin shouldn't be voting on that, because it doesn't pertain to them. So your argument is invalid.”

“Valid point, actually. But― just― can we choose a different topic?”

Alex opened his mouth to speak, but just then his phone beeped.

It was a call from Washington. He picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Oh, good. Sorry, Alex; I just wasn't sure where you were― John said he saw you getting into Thomas Jefferson's car? You left your bike at school, too, I was just scared―”

“It's okay,” Alexander reassured him. “We're stuck together for a project, we've got it figured out though.”

“Alright. If you need any help―”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Alright. Love you―”

“Love you too, bye.”

He hung up. Thomas lifted an eyebrow. “He just told you he loves you. You've only been under his care for, like, six days. See, I told you, they love you and you love them.”

Alexander sighed, looking up at Thomas and smiling wryly.

“I've found it difficult to love people, Thomas. Mainly because all the people I love are dead. Now, let's go; our subject can be the financial system―”

“Immigration,” Thomas burst out. “We can talk about immigration laws.”

“Do you know how close that hits to home?” Alex asked quietly.

“Wait―” Thomas sat down on the couch, motioning for Alexander to sit next to him. Instead, Alex sat on the second couch, which met the one Thomas was sitting on at a right angle.

“You're an immigrant, too?”

“It's fine. Could you please stop treating this like a therapy session? Because you're not getting paid to give a rip, so don't.”

“Alexander.”

“ _ Alex _ ,” he corrected.

“Alexander James Hamilton, you need to listen to me. I care about you―”

“And all I care about is getting this assignment done and actually finishing the tenth grade, thank you very much!” Alexander exclaimed, slamming his hand on the wooden coffee table between the two couches.

“Fine. Something easy― maybe slamming Trump a little bit, right? Because you like being overdramatic and hating everyone.”

“Sure,” Alexander drawled, moving over to sit next to Thomas. He old an iPad out of his backpack and opened a blank Google Document.

“So, the immigration system. We need an introduction, three arguments, and a conclusion.”

“Psh. I have at least 40 arguments on this topic.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Let's get started then, shall we?” He typed “argument one” in bold letters, then searched Google for some sources.

“NY Time columns, maybe? Ooh, this guy thinks mass deportation of lazy citizens is the solution. Mm.”

Alexander rested his head on Thomas's shoulder and watched the screen with little interest. He simply hummed in agreement, not noticing how red Thomas's face was now getting.

“U-uh, and on the national archives there's some drafts for the law itself― a-apparently, it's illegal for the federal government to put restrictions on immigration―”

“So it looks like the Asshole in Chief needs to read some of our laws,” Alexander spoke quietly.

“Y-yeah. Um, Alex?”

The smaller kid was asleep on his shoulder, snoring lightly.

“Looks like I'll be doing all the work,” Thomas whispered, careful not to wake Alexander up. The poor kid barely slept, so this was good. Plus, Thomas was comfortable with that added warmth on his shoulder.

“Nngh,” Alex murmured.

He was dead asleep, Thomas realized. That was just great.

To be honest, he wanted them to do this project today, but also together. And Alexander was so warm― a small nap wouldn't hurt.

He was out in two minutes.

 

~~

 

Alexander woke up at six in the afternoon, and he was sitting. But his pillow was soft, so he snuggled into it.

Now it was a bit uncomfortable, so he laid down.

His pillow woke up. It was Thomas. And Alexander was in his lap. On top of his―

“What,” Thomas muttered groggily.

Alex jerked away. “I-I’m sorry, I didn't know it was y―”

Thomas shushed him and hooked an arm around Alexander's waist, pulling him closer and closing his eyes. The latter eventually succumbed to sleep again, burrowing into Thomas's chest. The highschooler embracing him let out a little satisfied sigh, his lips gently forming a smile.

He was in deep.

 

~~

 

They both awoke to the landline ringing furiously.

“I'll get it,” Thomas offered, trying to stand up. But Alexander had been sleeping on him for a while, and his legs were asleep.

“I've got it,” said Alexander, quickly grabbing the phone on it's fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Alexander. I was so worried. It's seven pm, you've missed dinner and the Jeffersons’ front door is locked! What were you  _ doing _ ?”

“I..um, I'll be home. I'm sorry.”

“Alex―”

“I'll be right there, Dad.”

Thomas hid a snort with his hand. Alexander slammed the phone down and stormed out, forgetting his backpack on the couch.

 

~~

 

Later, Thomas found himself sitting on his bed, fiddling with the zipper of Alexander's backpack.

He really wanted to open it, for some reason. So he carefully unzipped it, as if it helps either the secret to life or a nuclear bomb.

(As if the two are separate things.)

The first thing he saw was a bright green notebook, so he pulled that out. It was labeled “trashy book of trash” with an ellipsis at the end, so Thomas opened to the first page. It continued with “...aka Alex's art/writing book…” and on the following page “...and his life.”

The page after  _ that _ added, “which basically consists of his infatuation with―”

Thomas covered his mouth with his hand, gaping a little.

There was his name, in Alexander's quick, childlike scrawl, finishing the sentence after the word  _ with _ .

The next fifteen-some pages were plot maps, sketchy doodles of random people, and short stories/poems/rants. Some of them made Thomas smile.

Then he got to one entitled, “confusion”. It was slightly tarnished with what looked like sauce from a hot pocket, but Thomas was more interested in the text content.

 

_ It's difficult, isn't it _

_ To figure out what you want _

_ And if it's a good thing to want _

_ And then _

_ How you should go about _

_ Getting it _

 

_ But what if you want something _

_ You know you can't have? _

_ Should you even try? _

_ Or should you give up? _

 

_ In this case, no _

_ I cannot give up _

_ Because that would be giving up _

_ My life _

 

_ Though my life is selfish _

_ Consisting of getting what I want _

_ Though I rarely get it anyways _

 

Exhaling slowly, Thomas shut the book. This was too personal, too close to Alexander's heart to just page through recklessly. Alexander had poured his mind into this book.

But then, a smaller, darker part of Thomas's brain justified it with the fact that a majority of it was about him.

Yet maybe Alexander didn't want anyone to read it because he didn't exactly know what he was thinking, and his brain was making things too complicated, so he tried to simplify it on paper. If Thomas wanted to know Alexander, all he had to do was form a bond with him, give a little. Otherwise he had an unfair advantage.

Thomas tucked the notebook back into the backpack and rested his head on his pillow, too excited to fall asleep.

Would it be weird to put the backpack by his head? It just smelled so strongly of Alexander. Of laundry detergent, dry flowers, and then some mix of scents that was simply  _ Alexander _ .

He fell asleep dreaming of Alexander.

 

~~


End file.
